


ataraxia

by vounoura



Series: knife wife and staff loser [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: F/F, Introspection? Of a sort, Not a huge amount of Naryu in this one actually, Post-Canon, Reminiscing, but she does play a part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 12:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12457416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vounoura/pseuds/vounoura
Summary: The sun rises, and life goes on.





	ataraxia

“Domesticity looks good on you.” Naryu teases, dragging the tip of a long finger down her spine, and Nirasa only smiles and rolls her eyes at the gesture.

It’s true - retirement has changed her some. She’s always been tall and slim, oddly so, even for a mer - she was teased for it as a child, called _‘strider leg’_ or other such nicknames in jest, although it always worried her mother.

(But her parents - especially her mother, the fretting creature she is - have always been worriers, teetering and sometimes falling into _‘overprotective’_. She resented them in her younger years for it, for the limitations forced on her life and the way they never wanted to let go of her, but she has come to see the other side of the story in her adulthood.

Having children of your own does that, she supposes.)

But back in the days of the Pact, when _Nirasa Sethan_ was a name followed by a lofty title like _Champion of Vivec_ or _Saviour of Tamriel_ instead of _‘woman living with a family in the farthest place possible from any major civilization’_ , she had been stronger. Faster. A little more enduring. A model soldier to most, skilled in blade and staff. She was young then, springy - someone who needed to keep moving, needed to be in constant activity to be content.

( _Nirasa Sethan_ is still a name followed by a lofty title by some. There are still whispers behind her back from time to time, still puzzled glances and astonished stares. Rarely, children and adults alike approach her directly, old soldiers who had seen the war or heard of it from their parents, and their words are always the same.

She accepts their thanks with grace, but she does not want it.

The Nirasa Sethan the world knows is a woman, 77 years of age, with fire in her teeth and a smile on her face. That was a woman always looking for the next problem to solve, for the next person to offend. She is timeless, eternal, invincible, infallible - a woman who lost a soul and killed a god for the right to it. For the right to her world.

The Nirasa Sethan that stands now is just a woman, 150 years of age, who still has embers stuck in her teeth but no longer needs to have a blade in her hand to stand. This Nirasa Sethan is no longer the fiercely-independent child she once was, a woman who has learned the value of relying on other people. She is a woman who has her own moments of weakness, who sometimes gets bread stuck in her teeth and has streaks of grey lining her hair. She is just a woman, just a mother, not a soldier, and many can no longer recognize one from the other.)

Some of those quirks never faded away - she still needs some form of active stimulation to avoid boredom, which is probably why she cleans so often (not that chasing after the five-year-old Veyari for most of her days doesn’t fulfill that need on its own) and still has a bit of a troublesome streak, although it’s mostly toned down from her days in Abah’s Landing.

(She’d thought to send letters to Zeira, to Walks, to Silver-Claw, to ask old friends how their lives were going, but it’s been at least 73 years since Abah’s Landing and only the mer are what’s left of the original crew. Herself, Gawaen, Quen, and Velsa. The last of a legacy.

She forgets, sometimes, how short a life is.)

But, she can’t remember the last time she picked up a blade, much less to use it seriously, and can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. A mixture of childbirth, child-rearing, and one-too-many Khajiiti sugar cakes has left her with a figure that’s a bit softer than she remembers it being - she was never a _strong_ woman per say, not physically, but she feels the loss all the same when she dresses in the mornings.

(The sight of the scar ripping across her breast - Mannimarco, her mind helpfully supplies - to this day bothers her. It brings back memories, sensations, ugly feelings - it’s a soul sickness, a weight she drags behind her.

She’ll never recover, this much she has accepted, but most days she can breathe, and that is enough.)

“Domesticity looks good on you,” Naryu teases lightly, trailing a finger down her spine, “But I still think you’re attractive enough to live with. Despite my constant desire to see you on the other end of a writ.”

Nirasa laughs, sharply, and reaches behind her to pinch the back of Naryu’s thigh. The action earns her a sharp nip to the tip of an ear in reprimand.

(She will never recover, but Naryu is here, she can breathe, and that is enough.)

The sun rises again, the distant mouth of Red Mountain is quiet and still, and a woman once called _hero_ finally finds easy peace in the dawn.


End file.
